Making Deals With a Demon
by Skalidra
Summary: When Pan first sees Killian he's fascinating, proper, and gone before the day is through. But he'll come back. Everyone who's had a taste of Neverland comes back, one way or another. Killian may not know it but the lieutenant is his, will always be his, and nothing will change that. - Peter Pan/Killian Jones (Hook), warnings inside for lack of space here!


I know, I know, I just can't stop confusing you guys. So, Killian is seriously attractive, as is Pan, and if you've been following me at all you already know I like the relationships that aren't necessarily healthy for either character, and I _love _villains. Consider yourself warned, this is _not _a friendly, loving thing. It is nasty, and possessive, Pan's a bastard, and Killian is pretty much in pieces even before Pan gets hands on him. Mostly, I just miss Pan. He was awesome, and badass, and we killed him off way too fast.

Now, I tried my very best to stick to all the facts I know about Killian's past and history as well as Pan's (I have compiled notes and every comment either has ever made that's given a hint, because I'm nuts but thorough), but there may be a few things that don't quite add up, as I have only seen about half of the latest season. What was with that hand thing, by the way?

So, **warnings** include: Mild dubcon, restraints, wax play, masochism, sadism, scratching, sensation play, and finally rough sex. You have now been warned. Happy New Year! Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Killian Jones.<p>

The name rings in my head. Rough in the voice of the one who'd said it, the _far_ less interesting brother with _far_ less potential. It's not the voice I'd like to remember it in, but it will have to do for now.

Killian _Jones_.

No, _just _Killian. 'Jones' makes him less interesting, connects him back to the idiot brother. The foolish one who was so stuck in his ways that he'd ignore obvious signs to believe his precious _King_ was telling the truth. Fool. But the other one, _Killian_, he dared to think otherwise. Dared to think that maybe the Dreamshade wasn't what they thought it was, that their King might be a _liar_.

He has _potential._

Those bright blue eyes burn like a brand in my mind, so innocently naive and then so _heartbroken_, so _desperate_. I'd like to see _that_ look on my sailor's face again, but better this time. Caused _by me,_ not because of a fool of a brother. At least that won't happen again. The brother is _dead_, I'm certain.

Killian didn't bother to _ask_ what the price was and, well, why would I tell him? I wish I could have seen his face when they landed back in their own world and the dear _brother _collapsed in his arms, dead before he even had time to draw another breath. I bet the expression on his face was _exquisite_. That he was heartbroken, torn apart, and _crying_.

I stretch out along the limb of the tree I'm in, staring up at the sky through the cover of leaves, my arms high above my head and my back firmly laid out along the branch. I let a soft, pleased sigh through my lips at the thought of my sailor's expression, at the glint of tears in blue eyes and the slightly open mouth of a _desperate_, _breaking_ man. Mmmmm...

_Killian_.

So put together, so _proper_, until his brother was dying in his arms and all he had left was the choice to trust me. When he _begged_ me for the cure, told me he'd pay _any_ price for it. I nearly took him up on _that_ right then and there. But no, not _yet_.

He'll be back. Everyone who gets a taste of Neverland comes back in the end, and I can't _wait_ to see what my Killian ends up as. Will he be a shell of a man, heartbroken and _begging_ me again for any way to fix his mistakes, for the chance to do anything about it? It'll be _beautiful_ when he does, and I'll wring every last scrap out of him before I tell him — whispering in his ear with him beneath me, bound and _begging_ — that there's nothing anyone can do, but _thanks anyway_.

I wonder if he'll break.

I lower one hand, closing my eyes and slipping my palm beneath the layers of my clothing, around the hard heat of my cock with a hiss as I bite down on my lower lip. The island sings around me, bright and alive and tied into every inch of who and what I am, and I laugh aloud at the glorious _brilliance_ of it. I stroke myself as the island shifts with me, and I laugh at the sky and at anyone who ever _dared_ call me useless, or a fool. Look at me _now_.

I twist my hand and arch along the branch, looping my other arm down around the limb of the tree to have something beneath my fingers and the tree _groans_ beneath me. I laugh aloud again, my lips curling in a grin that's more a baring of teeth, reveling in the feeling of it. All the years here and the feel of the island responding to me still manages to surprise me, to make me feel alive with ecstasy, and desire, and _want_.

I gasp and the leaves rattle, and I turn my mind towards thoughts of my sailor, my _Killian_. To the image of bright blue eyes and a cleanshaven jaw, a strong, lean body hidden underneath layers of stiff, _proper_ fabric. Like a wrapped present, all tight paper and a bow on top with something hard and _delicious_ inside.

"Killian," I say aloud, _feeling_ the rocks of the beach rattle and shift, _miles_ away, and it forces another grin and laugh from me.

I imagine pinning him up against the wall of one of the island's caves, moving rock, stone, and dirt to hold him up against it so I can have both hands free. Peeling apart his clothing piece by piece as he strains against it, flushed and _wanting_ before I've ever even touched his skin, but so _proper_ and trained to not _show_ any of it that he has to be torn apart to feel the things I want him to. And I do it _gladly_. I strip him down to just his skin, legs held open by the rock and he's _hard_ of course but he won't look at me, keeps his blue eyes closed until I grasp him and stroke, and there are minutes of touch and feeling his body up against mine as he moans and gasps, biting each syllable off before it can ever leave his throat. He'll arch and come for me with a cry, and only when I drag his head back down and shove my fingers in his mouth will he look at me.

He'll protest, but he'll want it so _badly_ that he won't fight me, and when I sink into him he'll writhe and arch and _beg_ for more, and I'll give it. Then when we're done he'll sink to his knees at my feet, exhausted and completely in my sway, at my mercy, and those _pretty_ blue eyes will look up at me and—

I come with a shout, arching high off the branch and quivering, _trembling_ with the force of it. My throat works as I gasp and swallow, riding through aftershocks and digging the fingers of my other hand into the bark as I draw taught like the string of a bow. I fall back with a satisfied sigh, palming at my cock and enjoying the almost painful touch of my hand around it as I slowly ease into the tree and arch my other hand back over my head, stretching and twisting along the tree with _power_ singing through my veins and inside my blood.

I let it _consume_ me, ride high and mad with the power of the island at my beck and call, at my fingertips, letting it rise and sway in me like a tide or a tree in a storm. I come back laughing, and slip my hand out of my clothing as I turn and _fall_ from the branch and then I'm _flying_, high into the sky and at the power of my own mind, _mine_.

_Killian_, I think again, turning in the sky and letting go of flight, letting myself drop and _plummet_ until I catch myself at the last moment, spinning off through trees and high, _higher_.

I can't _wait_.

* * *

><p>I have my lost boys by the time Killian finally shows back up, after years and years of blue eyes and black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, always at the front of my mind. After years of imagining taking that ponytail and <em>yanking<em>, forcing his throat to arch and his body to come _alive_ under my hands as he gasps and pleads. After hundreds of fantasies of all the ways I can take him apart and make him _scream_ with pleasure under my hands, all the things I'm going to _do_ to him.

I feel the presence at the edge of my island, in the sea, feel the _rawness_ as a portal falls open in my land and something comes through. Dozens of souls, people, in a ship that feels familiar but I can't quite place.

My head snaps up and I freeze, one of my hands pinning Rufio, my _favorite_ lost boy, to the bed beneath me by the back of his shoulder. He gives a sharp cry and writhes under me for touch, for friction, but a sharp squeeze of the hand on his shoulder makes him still with a long, low, groan. He doesn't struggle as I tilt my head and stare blindly into the wood of the small hut, reaching out and _feeling_ for this new thing that's entered my territory. The island stirs to life under my touch, and I reach out past the edges of its beaches, into the waves of salt and sea that chrun under my touch, and rush towards the presence.

A ship, strong wood soaked in blood and years of service in the water, whispering to me about battles and war and a dozen different captains come and gone. The _Jolly_ _Roger_, my lips curl in a smirk at the name. _Pirates_. Pirates come to Neverland, how _fun_.

I reach for the people aboard it, scurrying like ants over its surface as they twist through rope and wood like they're extensions of it, with skill that only comes from _years_ and _years_ of practice and a natural-born talent. _Good_ pirates then, not just the rabble that might burn bright and die within a few months, eaten alive by swords and blood. These are experienced man, hardened by their times, souls singing about a connection to the sea I've only felt before in mermaids.

I've seen enough through the eyes of my shadow, and I've been on and off the island a dozen or more times, wandering and feeling the world as it grows. I can't stay long, but I've collected dozens of boys and weeded out the ones I _want_, the ones that are worth keeping.

I press down a little harder on Rufio, throwing myself around the people on the ship, arching my back up as I feel them around me. Each one unique, feeling just a little different than the rest, and each with the same two emotions brimming in their minds. Excitement, and fear of the unknown. Except one. I focus in on the soul standing at the wheel, still among the flurry of the rest, and _feel _it, and I feel my heart rise and my teeth bare in _desire_. I know the way that soul feels even if it's not exactly the same, even if it's harder than I remember, the fluttering hope gone and replaced with an anger that brims and _screams_ to anyone who can feel it.

_Killian._

I give a laugh, digging nails into the flesh beneath me and I think Rufio cries out but I don't _care_.

My _Killian_.

"Pan?" gasps the boy beneath me, and I drag my attention back and away, smoothing the seas for easy sailing as I slip back to my own body, away from the island's call. Rufio is bleeding around my nails, head craned over his shoulder to look up at me, and I grin down at him. None of my lost boys know about Killian, not yet, but oh they _will_. When I break him into pieces they'll see what I did, and he'll be _mine _but maybe I'll share if they _please_ me. Share his beautiful blue eyes and that lean, _proper _form. That could be fun to watch.

I dig my nails in a little harder, just to see Rufio's eyes flutter and his back twist under me in pleasure and _pain_, and then loosen them and raise the hand not pinning his shoulder down to my mouth, licking the blood off my nails. Sweet, no _power_ in it but that's fine, I don't need any of that. Rufio is _loyal_, and _deadly_, and that's more than enough for my tastes. I can do whatever I want to with him and he would take it with a grin and an arched back, would never stop me even if I choked the life from him right now. It's a _special_ kind of loyalty.

"Someone's come to Neverland," I tell him, leaning down over him and whispering the words into the back of his neck, along the curve of his spine. "A _ship_."

Rufio moans and arches under me, then gives a cry that's half a laugh as I bite into him more than hard enough to break the skin and tear through his flesh. I lower my hand back down from against my lips, dragging my nails across his skin on the way down and taking hold of his hip to pull him up against me and back where I'm buried inside him. I don't bother holding back, slamming inside without a care for the bruises I'm leaving or the noises he's making; somewhere between pained and blissful. I close my eyes against his back, letting myself imagine a thicker body under me, the same lean muscle but skin darkened by the sun and not naturally, the taste of salt and blood on my tongue.

I slam deeper and harder into the body under me, keeping him pinned down to the bed with one hand and dragging his hips up to meet my thrusts. I blank out the noises, imagining a deeper voice in their place, the gasps and moans of an older throat while muscle works under my hands and against me. I imagine blue eyes — hazy with lust and glazed in _ecstasy_ and just a hint of pain — looking over a thick shoulder, back at me as perfect lips form the word I want them to.

"_Please."_

I bite down into the flesh at the back of his neck, digging in my teeth to smother the cry that leaves me as I clamp my hands down _hard_ and jerk my hips into him, letting go.

The body writhes under me, blood filling my mouth, and I slam in a few more times as I come, not letting go of any of my holds until I'm completely spent. As always, power sings through my veins, the island connecting with me on a deeper level in the moments where my guard isn't up and I don't have the same kind of control that I've perfected over the years. The room trembles around us, the wood groaning along with me, and I grin into the back of Kill— Rufio's neck. I shove him down, letting my teeth come undone and releasing the hold I have on his hip to pull away.

The cold only bothers me for a moment before the air itself adjusts to my comfort, heating a bit to feel warm and pleasant on my bare skin. Rufio doesn't move except to groggily turn and look back at me as I twist and stretch, getting up off the bed. A thought and I'm dressed, and I lean down over Rufio with a smile, petting his hair — red streaks disrupting the black, and that _irritates_ me — away from his eyes — dark brown, not _blue_ — and watching him push up into my touch even though it hurts him. My _loyal boy_.

"I'll be greeting our guests," I inform him, straightening and turning away without any other kind of explanation or information and heading out of the hut. I take a brief glance around the camp at my boys, busy or playing, and give a small smirk.

I reach into the power of the island, tapping it and _twisting_, blinking to find myself on the beach. Rocks shift beneath my feet, smoothing my path as I walk to the edge of the water and look out, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun. My smirk widens to a grin at the ship I can see, at the black flag flying above it. A ways out, maybe still thirty or so minutes before it reaches the edge of how close it can get to the sands. I settle in to wait, finding a vantage point high on a cliff overlooking the beach to lean over and watch the ship approach.

The _Jolly Roger_. So, Killian became a pirate, took that _lovely_ ship his brother had — 'Jewel of the Realm', wasn't it? — and turned it to a darker role, gave it a new name, raised a new flag. I wonder what their _crew_ thought of that.

When it does drop anchor off my coast, and a rowboat lowers over the side, I reach forwards again to feel the souls of the people entering it. To my joy, and a large grin I can't help, Killian is among them. I watch the rowboat approach my beach, finally getting dragged onto the rocks and onto shore, and the figures climb out. I wait for them to get a bit up the beach before rolling and _blinking_ myself next to the rowboat, shoving it off into the water with one foot. The scrape of the wood is loud, and there's several shouts as I turn to the group of four pirates that are a mix of angry and shocked, _afraid_ and I can _taste_ the fear.

The man who _must_ be Killian is at their head, but he slips through the rest of them to stand in front like he's protecting them. Noble sentiment I suppose, if useless. "Pan," he calls to me, through gritted teeth and in a voice that's rougher than I remember, torn and so drenched in emotion it's a wonder he can talk at all.

I tilt my head, flicking my gaze up and down his frame and not answering him just yet. The stiff, starched white clothes are gone, replaced by black and red clothing and a heavy leather jacket that falls to his calves, hints of silver here and there in the buckles and bits of ornamental metal. His boots are good quality but scuffed, obviously not shined in months if ever, and his clothes are the same. Good quality, well taken care of, but not the precision and perfection of a military man. His jaw has a bit of a scruff to it, not a beard but just the untidiness of a man who hasn't shaved in a day or two. He's got rings on the hand I can see — his right, hanging at his side — and there's a sword on one hip and a pistol on the other.

The way he _feels_ is interesting. Anger, like I felt earlier, so _much_ anger it's almost like drowning, but underlined with grief so _raw_ that I'd swear he'd just had his heart torn apart. Everything he is taken apart, like _I_ planned to do. I don't really appreciate anyone else messing with the things that are _mine_.

I step forward and blink closer to him, yanking myself to stand barely two feet away, and the rest of his crew jerks away, one giving a shout of surprise that I don't bother listening to. He stands his ground, looking down at me with a clenched jaw and stiff shoulders. His eyes are lined with kohl, bringing his blue eyes _sharply_ into focus in the rest of his face and hiding what look like dark circles under his eyes. There's so much _pain_ in him, so much _anger_, and I don't think most of it is aimed at me. Shame.

"Killian," I say finally, studying his clothing close up and reaching out a hand to trace the lines of his coat and his shirt, and he lets me with only one thick swallow that bobs his adam's apple up and down. He's not as fearless as he's pretending. "This is… _new_," I say, with a smirk, "I like it, leftenant."

"Captain," he corrects, and I briefly grip his shirt, like I'm going to pull him forward, before letting him go.

"Of _course_. Dreamshade's not a pleasant death, is it?" I ask, mocking him and making _no_ effort to pretend any different. _Fury_ blazes to life in his eyes, and he jerks forward a step like he's going to try tearing me apart with his bare hands, his teeth baring in a snarl. I meet him with a lunge forward, grabbing him by the lapel of his jacket and pulling backwards as I step and spin, pulling both of us through space and _deep_ into the woods of the island. Far away from anyone and everyone who could hear us or help him. He inhales sharply as we move, and I fling him the opposite direction as our feet switch from rocks and sand to solid dirt.

His back slams up against a tree — one of the larger, thicker ones — and he grunts and folds a little bit in pain. His eyes snap open almost immediately, darting around our little slice of forest, and his jaw clenches even tighter.

"Where the bloody hell are we?" he demands, and I pace the area in front of him, pinning him up against the tree with nothing but the threat of nowhere to escape. He seems to take the hint.

"In the island," I answer easily, with a small grin, and he scowls. "I didn't much like your crew behind you, Killian. We can talk in _private_ this way, should be _simpler_." Better.

I can't lie — why would I lie to myself anyway? — Killian looks good in the new clothes he has, and the kohl really does bring out his eyes in a way that makes him _gorgeous_, not just pretty. The scruff is enough to keep him looking like a man, as is his newly short hair, but those _eyes_ are enough to make me want him more than I have in years. Memories are never as good as the real thing, and even though I miss the optimism and _hope_ in them — and the missed opportunity to shatter it myself — I don't think this heady mix of anger and grief is any worse. It could even be _better_.

He straightens up off the tree, and there's a flash of silver metal that draws my eye, at the bottom of his left sleeve. I focus, frowning, and then step forward through the space between us in an _instant_ to grab his arm and drag it up between us. The sleeve falls down his arm, and I bare my teeth and _sneer_ at the stump of an arm, a metal hook screwed to leather at the end of it. Gleaming sharply, _brand_ new, and certainly a fantastic weapon, a _deadly_ piece of metal, but it's not a _hand_. Worse, it's crippling, an injury that _I_ didn't cause and one that makes my sailor, _my_ Killian, less than he was. I hate it _instantly_.

"Who did this?" I demand, tracing fingers over the edge of the leather cuff and the straps that secure it to his arm, and he jerks against my hold very briefly. It doesn't help him, and he swallows. He probably didn't know my strength until I touched him.

"A crocodile," he replies sarcastically, with an edged smile and another jerk of his arm. "Let me go."

I tighten my hand instead until he groans in pain, leather creaking beneath my grip. It takes less than I thought it would. "_Tell_ me," I hiss, "or I will tear into you piece by piece until you do." I'm going to do that _anyway_, but he doesn't need to know that yet.

He snarls down at me. "A _crocodile_, I _told_ you," he repeats.

"Don't _lie_ to me, Killian." I push his arm up until the metal of his new hook presses up against his throat, the point digging into his skin and threatening — all I'd have to do is jerk my grip — to tear open his neck. "I don't appreciate _liars_. Give me a _name_ so I can hunt them down."

His blue eyes narrow and he swallows, but stays still. "Why the bloody hell would you do that, mate?" he asks; I can feel his heart pounding through the fabric of his clothes, feel his pulse pick up. "What if he's dead?"

"He's _not_," I snap. "_Now_, Killian."

It's been a long time since anyone disobeyed me in even such a tiny, pointless way. Answering a question isn't really the end all be all of acts of refusal, but it still grates against me because someone _hurt _my sailor, and that will _not stand_. I will tear the bastard apart for daring to lay a hand on the man I claimed as my own a long time ago. _Years_ ago.

He looks like he wants to argue some more, but a push of his arm and a slight puncture in his throat, a trail of blood starting to slide down his skin, cracks his refusal. "Rumplestiltskin," he answers, and _fury_ flashes down my spine.

I let Killian go, taking a few steps back not to crush my sailor's bones in my grip, not to _tear_ him apart when what I want is my son's throat in my hands. Rumple couldn't have known, could he? That Killian was _mine_, that he'd been to Neverland. He couldn't have done this on _purpose_, this is just some sick twist of fate or coincidence.

"Why?" I demand, pacing now because I can't help myself, because any further and any less control and I'll start a hurricane or something about as equally disastrous, and I don't want to clean it up. Not right now. I have to keep enough control to keep everything in the island how it should be, keep it all together and not running off my emotions.

"I stole the bastard's wife," he answers, and I still and look at him.

Killian has been _touching other people?_

I shut that thought down almost instantly. Of _course_ he has. My sailor didn't know that I decided he was mine, and he definitely didn't know that when he came back to Neverland he would be _mine_ for real, and I didn't ever expect a man like him to remain celibate. That would have been a miracle. I certainly didn't, though my lost boys are little more than targets for my desire and a replacement for what I wanted.

I cock my head to the side, watching Killian as he raises his right hand to the new scratch on his neck, grimacing at the blood that stains his fingertips. His blue eyes are narrowed, none of what I remember in them as he looks up at me.

"Not much a fan of my own blood, mate. You could ask _nicely_ next time."

I step closer — he goes rigid, proving that his words are for show more than anything else — and put my hand against his chest, shoving him against the tree and holding him there. He doesn't fight me, yet, but his right hand rests on the pistol at his hip, ready to draw it. Let him _try_. I study him, taking in the glint of a single earring in his right ear, the fresh stiffness to his shoulders, taking another look at the circles under his eyes and deciding that they're new, recent. This happened not long ago. Days at most. He's not healed, he's still adjusting, _Rumple_ is the reason my sailor came back to me.

My lips curl in a smirk, and I press up against my Killian, uncomfortably close by anyone's standards. "What do you _want_ from me, Killian?" I ask quietly, letting the forest around us go silent, like it's waiting for his answer the same way I am. He's tense underneath my fingers, body hardly giving under the angles of mine, and I watch him swallow, thickly.

"Dreamshade," he answers, a bitter edge to his voice. "I want to kill the son of a bitch, that'll let me do it." His jaw tightens. "What do you want for it, Pan? All magic has a _price_, right?" That anger _is_ aimed at me, and I let my teeth show as I smile a little wider.

"I _warned_ you," I remind him. "I told you not to leave the island if you weren't willing to pay the price, and you didn't _ask_ what the price was, you didn't _care_ so long as he came back, did you?"

The slip of a knife between my ribs stings in a way that I haven't felt in a long time, and I suck in a breath and jerk backwards a step, my gaze falling down. Killian's hand falls away from the knife buried in my side, aimed to slip easily between my ribs and up into my heart, and I smother the _grin_ that wants to leave me. Killian has no _idea_ what I am, _who_ I am. _Clearly_. I put my hands to the wound, sinking to my knees in totally feigned drama, and I can see the _pleasure _in his eyes as I fake wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, fake _pain_.

He leans forward, grabbing my jaw with his hand and tilting my head up. "I don't _need _you, Pan," he says with a sneer, "I _know _where it grows, remember?" A rough flick of his hand as he lets go twists my head to the side and he strides past me, the edge of his coat slipping over my shoulder.

I l_augh_, and pull the knife from between my ribs. It hurts a little bit, the sharp sting of a pinch with long nails, but the wound closes seamlessly behind its withdrawal, and I drag myself through the fabric of my island to appear directly in front of my sailor, my captain, my _Killian_.

"_Bad_ idea," I tell him with a grin, flipping the small knife in my hand as he takes a jerky step backwards, eyes widening in shock. "I _am_ this island, Killian," I inform him. "You can't _kill_ me, and it was rude of you to _try_, wasn't it?" I drive him backwards, right back up against the tree as I press the knife tight up against his jaw, along the line of his throat. "That's cost you a bit of bargaining power, _captain_. Now, let's start negotiations over, shall we?"

I press it a little tighter, watching him as he's forced to turn his head to avoid me slicing him open, head flat against the bark. I take a handful of the front of his clothes in my free hand as I press him back against the wood.

"You're a _demon_," he hisses, and I give a small shrug and an equally small smile.

"Something of the sort. You should have asked dear _Rumple_ about me, we go back a long ways." Anger twists his mouth and narrows his eyes, and I watch his hand twitch towards another weapon. "Ah-ah, captain," I warn him, "try stabbing me again and I won't be so _nice_ about it, understand me?"

He swallows, the knife knicks him, and he winces. "What do you want for it?" he asks, meeting my gaze, and I make a show of pretending to think, of mocking him with his own ignorance of my intentions. His teeth grit together.

"I want _you_," I tell him, in a hiss, and his eyes widen before narrowing sharply.

"What the _bloody hell_ does that mean?" he snarls, and I give a smirk and press myself up against him, letting him feel each angle of my body tight against his.

"Guess," I offer, sliding one leg between the two of his. _Anger_ bursts to bright life behind his eyes, and his hooked arm jerks forward and presses against the side of my throat, tight against my flesh and threatening to hurt me if I make the slightest wrong movement, like the knife I have on _him_.

"Let me go," he demands, and I smile.

"Why _should_ I?" I counter.

He gives a tiny shudder. "You just… Just let me go, Pan. I'll get the hell out of Neverland and we'll pretend this whole _stupid _thing never happened."

"Get out of Neverland?" I echo, questioning him and tilting my head sideways, into his hook. "How are you planning to do _that_, Killian?" His eyes widen a little bit, like he hadn't even considered the logistics of getting back _out _of my domain "It's a _lovely _ship but it seems to be lacking some of the things you used to get here before. A _sail_, as I remember it. What happened to _that_, Killian?"

"I burned it," he answers, swallowing and wincing. "Wasn't supposed to be coming back to this damned place."

"Your conviction is _adorable,_" I say, pressing my leg further up between his and up against him, and his hook jerks into my throat in retaliation, digging a furrow through my skin that I barely even feel. "Whatever you used to get here I don't think you have another one," I guess, ignoring the sensation — not pain, just a slight pushing feeling like someone is pressing my skin together over muscle — of my skin knitting back together as he stares down at it, and I can see and _feel _fear spring to life in him, burning bright underneath the layers of anger and pain. "So how are you planning to _leave_, captain?" I ask, with a smirk that bares my teeth.

"Damn you," he spits, and I let my smirk curl into a full grin.

"Been there," I answer easily, remembering the _glorious_ feeling of joining with this island for the first time, "done that. Let's make a _deal_, captain. You'll get what you want, and I get what _I_ want." I watch him swallow, shudder. "We could both leave…" I let my words drag, pause. "Satisfied."

Something seems to click together in his head, eyes narrowing, and he studies me past the knife at his throat. Blue eyes flicker with something calculating, _careful_, and then he gives another swallow and turns his head to face me head on. I pull the knife back a little bit to let him do it, to see those _wonderful_ blue eyes focus fully on me and nothing else. "A deal?" he asks, and I give a small nod.

His jaw tightens, gaze flicking down my frame and up again. He's cautious, obviously, and I offer him a grin. "For what we both want," I say, and I can see his hand clench into a fist.

"How about you clear that up for me, mate?" he says in something between a question and an outright demand, a sneer on his lips. "Your bloody Dark One friend has a bit of a reputation about _deals_ and their _fine print_. What _exactly_ are you offering, and what do you want?"

Oh, he's _learned_. _Good_.

"I'll give you a cutting of Dreamshade," I say with a small smile. "In good health, fit to plant anywhere you want." People agree to things easier when they think all your cards are already on the table. Killian might not think of all the ways I could slip _around_ whatever deal we make if he thinks I'm playing to him to begin with. "In exchange, I get to have you."

"_Define_ that," he snarls, and I give a slow smirk and a roll of my hips up against his, he sucks in a sharp breath.

"I get to _fuck_ you, Killian," I tell him bluntly, like he wanted me to, and the shaky exhale and clench of his jaw are everything I've imagined but _better_. "In whatever way I want, for a night."

"Once," he tries to bargain, and even though it pleases me that he's not trying to deny me it at all I still laugh in his face.

"You don't _have_ anything I want, Killian." I grin. "Consider it a favor that I'm bothering to deal with you at all, I don't _have_ to."

"I have _me_," he counters, and I shake my head with another laugh, pushing the knife a little tighter against his jaw for a second.

"I could trap you in this forest _forever_ if I wanted to," I let him know, and feel his muscles stiffen as he tenses against me. "I could run you in circles until you'd do _anything_ I wanted for a handful of water or a scrap of food, just to see another living person again." He pales a little bit, head pressed tight back against the bark of the tree. "Dealing is a _courtesy_ my _dear_ captain, and you'll give me exactly what I want or I'll stop _dealing_ and just _take_ it from you."

I have no particular issue with taking what I want from Killian. He'll be gorgeous either way, and anyone gives in to me after enough time in Neverland. There's no way _out_ without my permission and my help, and I won't be giving Killian _that_ anytime soon. He's _mine_, he just doesn't know it yet.

I can see the indecision in his eyes right up until he swallows, tilts his head back, and lifts his eyes skyward for a second in what looks like prayer. I resist the urge to tell him that the only god on this island is _me,_ and he's welcome to pray right to me if he wants to.

"Fine," he says grudgingly. "One night, sunset to sunrise. _If_ my crew never finds out."

I smooth my free hand out to dip into the collar of his jacket, touch the slice of chest visible in the partially open shirt. His skin is warm underneath my hand, hair coarse and I have to bite back the desire to grip it and _yank._ "_I_ won't tell them," I promise. "If they find out from you that's not my problem."

He grits his teeth, but nods. "Alright. In exchange for a cutting of Dreamshade in perfect health, that I can take with me from the island and plant anywhere I want?" I echo his nod with one of my own, and his eyes firm up with resolve, determination. "Deal, _demon._"

"Deal, _pirate_." I pull the knife away from his throat, flipping it in my hand and pressing the hilt into his free hand. "I'll let you find your own way out of the jungle, and I expect you back out on that beach at sunset, captain. Be a second later and our agreement is void."

His hook slowly pulls back from my neck, and I step back to let him move away from the tree, step to the side so it isn't at his back. "I'll be there as long as you let me _get_ to the bloody beach," he says with a sneer. "Not my fault otherwise." Oh he _has_ learned. This should be _fun_.

"I can't _wait_," I take another step back, glancing up at the sun even though I don't need to see it to feel the time in my bones and my _blood_. "See you then, Killian. Looking forward to it."

I offer him a mocking salute and pull through the space of my island, appearing back in my camp to no surprise and no real reaction from my lost boys. Most glance up, and a few watch me for a few seconds, but the majority don't pay my sudden appearance any special kind of note except to make sure the flicker in the corner of their vision is actually me. The ones who do are new, and Rufio.

He steps up beside me as I watch my lost boys, studying them for a minute as he approaches and then stands beside me. He's put back together, though there are a few marks bruising vividly on his neck and one only partially hidden under his black vest and short top, imprints of my teeth and my power that he wears proudly. The bruises that _are _under his clothes don't stop him moving smoothly, he's had too much practice under me for that to happen.

"Things go alright, Pan?" he asks, as I turn in place and take a look around at the camp.

This won't do. I have no desire to uproot my lost boys from the camp for a night with Killian, and my first taste of him will be mine and _mine_ alone, I won't share it with anyone else. I trust that my boys would stay away if I ordered them to, but why bother? I can outfit one of my island's caves to be comfortable just as easily, and it will be private. I could even seal us in once I brought my pirate there, lock him inside with me until we're done and I decide to let him go.

"Yes," I say, in answer to Rufio's question. "It's a ship of pirates, they'll be staying for a while."

"Do you want me to gather the boys, kill a few off to warn them away?" Rufio asks, voice lighting with bloodlust and a savage _desire_ that was what made him my _favorite_ lost boy only a few days after he showed up. That and the three corpses he stepped over to take a place at my side.

"No, _I'm_ keeping them here." Rufio pauses for a second, one hand resting on the hip furthest from me and his body leaned a bit to one side. If this were any other time, if _Killian _wasn't at the front of my mind in every way, I'd be looking at the muscle of his exposed abdomen and the marks I left on him now that they're darker and obvious against his skin.

"Why's that?" he asks, stepping closer and nearly up against my side. Not touching me, not quite, because he knows better than to try if I'm not in the mood, but close enough for me to feel the brush of his breath on my neck. He's a little shorter than I am, an inch or so, but he's got more obvious muscle than I do.

"I like the look of their captain," I say, a simpler answer than the truth. I don't have the patience to explain my history with Killian to my lost boy, and he doesn't need to know it anyway. Rufio scowls at my answer, teeth baring just a little in a silent snarl, and I tilt my head to look at him. I can feel it _burning_ in his soul. _Jealousy_. I laugh and slip closer to him, raising a hand to touch the line of his jaw and lightly thread through his hair. He leans into my touch, snarl slipping to a tiny, pleased smile. Then, without warning, I slap him.

He crashes to his knees under my strength, and the rest of the camp freezes around us. Silence is heavy in the air, and I let my lips curl in a sneer as I reach down and take his chin in my hand, sharply pulling it upward so he's looking at me.

"You're _mine_, Rufio," I tell him, tightening my grip for a moment and pitching my voice low enough for just the two of us, "but I'm not _yours_." Maybe the closer lost boys will hear, and my words will spread through our camp, but that's fine. If anyone else takes Rufio's position then they'll have earned it. My only 'favorite' is the lost boy who struggles hardest to be _mine_, with every inch of their soul and body. The one I can _feel_ wants to be mine. "_Remember that_," I hiss.

I release him and step away, taking a look around at the rest of the boys. They get back to work or play, except one. He's tall, the tallest of all of my lost boys but always drawn a bit downwards, like he's trying to fit in, and skinny underneath the hooded cape and collection of green and grey clothing. Skin and bones, but a decent hand with a knife and a better one with a club. I watch the fairly new boy, _Felix_, as he studies me and Rufio, as he watches my head lost boy get back to his feet. There's something calculating in his eyes but they're _flat_, face a mostly stone mask. His gaze flicks towards me, meets my eyes for a moment, then dips to the ground as he bows his head and gives a thin smile towards the dirt.

So, there's a contender after all.

Rufio shoots a glare around the camp, at anyone still daring to glance at him, and raises a hand to his cheek. He works his jaw briefly, and then inclines his head when I look back at him. He doesn't look away from me, or down at the ground, but keeps his eyes on my face even as his head bows.

"Keep the camp in order," I command, taking another short glance at Felix. "I'll be gone for the night, and no one is to come _near_ the caves until morning or they deal with _me_. Clear?"

Rufio gives a grin, teeth standing out against his skin, even the reddening side that I struck. "Understood, Pan." There's still something unhappy in the way he feels, something that burns bright and alive with the urge for violence and the feeling of jealousy, but I ignore it.

So long as Rufio doesn't _act_ on any of that, I don't care what he feels. He can curse and spit in private all he likes, but one toe out of line in front of _me_ or my lost boys — who would be _happy_ to take him down by telling me what he says behind my back — and I will make sure he knows his place. Maybe I've given him too much attention.

Some _boy_ doesn't get to think that he has any right to or hold on me. _Never_.

* * *

><p>The moment the sun hits the horizon I'm alive and brimming, my head snapping upwards and <em>feeling<em> the moment I've been waiting for in my veins. I set the last of the things in my makeshift cave room up — lighting the wicks of candles with a thought or a touch — and then slip through the air of the island to the edge of the beach, just within the cover of the forest before it turns to rocks and sand.

Killian is already there, perched on top of one of the shelves of rock that are tiered down to the water, one leg drawn up beside him and the other mostly flat along the ground. I can feel him from here, feel the anger and the touch of hard resignation to him, smirking and arching my back against a tree at the touch of it. I'll change _that_. He'll be begging for more when I'm through with him.

I wait until the last moment, as the sun hits the very edge of the horizon, and slip to the space just behind him, soundlessly crouching down behind him. The sun vanishes completely, and I reach out and grip him by both upper arms, dragging him back against me.

"Bloody _hell_," he shouts, twisting and jerking against me but not getting anywhere.

"You're on time," I comment, holding him still as I dip my head into the junction of his neck and shoulder, taking a breath that smells of leather and the ocean, and the slight hint of alcohol, rum. I tilt my head, inhaling farther up his neck, closer to his mouth, as he gives a last jerk against me and a wordless snarl. There's a definite reek of alcohol, and I laugh into the skin of his throat, flexing my fingers over his arms.

"_What?_" he demands, tense but with the faintest slur, and I smother another laugh against his flesh.

As if he could get away from me that easily, as if I'd _let_ him blank this night out or take it any easier than I want him to. It's a decent idea, just not real realistic. I can't fault him for trying, even if it wasn't intentional and he was just drinking to calm his nerves.

"None of _that_ now, captain," I reprimand, scraping my teeth over his pulse point, and feel his breathing hitch under my mouth. I send a flash of _fire_ through him, my magic burning away the offending intoxication, and he arches and shouts in pain, remaining hand clenching.

"Son of a _bitch_," he gasps out, and I straighten up, dragging him to his feet with me. He's a little unsteady but that's pain, not the alcohol. My magic didn't _have_ to be painful, but I like it better that way and he could use the reminder not to try and edge around the deal we made. _I'm_ the only one who gets to do that.

I lean into his shoulder as his head tilts back, breath coming sharp and fast between his teeth, and admire the curve of his throat. "We've got a long night ahead," I whisper into the side of his neck. "Hang on, captain."

I pull us through the island, to my makeshift cave of a room, and even _with _my warning he still starts, jerking a little bit. I press tight against his back, releasing his arms and sliding my hands around his waist, letting him look around — if he can concentrate — while I let my hands wander over the leather, velvet, and salt-stiff cotton covering his skin.

"I'm not a big fan of being _sober _right now," he snaps, and I tighten my grip on him and laugh into his shoulder.

"Well _I_ like you this way, and it's _my_ word that's important _right now_, right, _Killian?_" He snarls, but doesn't answer, and I raise my hands to tug the coat off of his shoulders, pulling back for just a second to let it drop between our bodies and to the floor in a puddle around his legs. When he shudders it's a lot more obvious now that I can see the lines of his back through his shirt, the extension of his shoulder blades into the cloth, where he's standing straight and tall, _stiff_. His hook catches for a moment on the coat as it drops, but comes loose with a shake of his arm that doesn't quite feel automatic.

"You're a bastard," he snarls over his shoulder, and I run my hands up his back and then around him, over the more form fitting clothing that was mostly hidden under his coat.

"And you're _mine_ for the night," I remind him.

"To _fuck_," he answers bluntly, "I never said a _bloody_ thing about being _nice_ or sober, you _demon_."

I rake my nails into the flesh at the collar of his shirt, the slice of exposed skin, and he jerks away from it, back into me, with a hiss. "And I don't remember saying _I'd_ play nice either, my _captain_. Do you want to _compromise_, or should I walk away and let you try and get the Dreamshade behind my _back_, Killian. You remember how well _that_ worked out, don't you?"

"Fuck you," he says, but it lacks any real kind of _bite_, it feels like an automatic response without any feeling behind it. Like it's something he just got used to saying somewhere along the line and doesn't stop to think about anymore. "Fine."

"You'll watch your mouth?" I question, holding him against me and speaking into the side of his throat, and I feel him tense.

"_No_," he snaps, "but I won't bloody _bite_ you with it."

It's too good an opportunity to try resisting, and I've got _all_ night to do anything I _want_ to the captain, why not start off smaller?

"_Prove_ it," I say with a smirk, jerking and _shoving_ him to spin him in place and then forcing him to his knees in front of me. He _glares_, but doesn't make a single noise. I let one hand rest on his shoulder and the other touch his jaw, tracing my fingers over rough stubble until they touch his snarling lips and teeth. "Been with a man before, Killian?" I ask, and he snarls a little bit more but still completely without sound.

"With _men_, yes," he spits through his teeth, "not a _boy_."

I laugh, biting back the urge to tell Killian that I am _so_ much older than he is, that I was here before he was born and will be here a long time after he dies of old age, _if_ I _let_ him ever age a day again. I _like_ him just the way he is, why would I ever let him leave to grow any older? He could be my eternal toy, my pet to break and fuck until I get tired of him; always just this age and never any different. I like the idea.

"Then I expect some _talent_," I say with a smirk, with _challenge_.

The way he reaches up, knowing _exactly_ what I'm talking about without me having to ever say it, is _angry_, and the single hand loosening my clothing and tugging at my belt isn't as smooth as I'd expect, until I remember that _Rumple_ took my Killian's hand, and he probably hasn't figured out how to do a _lot_ of things with only his remaining one.

"Don't bother," I tell him, snapping my fingers to give him a visible cue as I strip myself of my clothing with a thought. He flinches back, eyes widening for a second and falling instantly, _immediately_, between my legs. I can see him swallow.

I'm not hard — Killian is attractive but he's not stunning or _seductive _in the ways I can remember some people being, before Neverland — and his jaw sets for a moment before he leans in, bracing his hand on my thigh for balance without a pause. His eyes close — I almost tell him to open them again so I can see that _blue_, but swallow the urge — and his mouth opens, neck bending and head dipping to catch the head of my cock between his lips.

I slip my hand back through his hair, tugging him a little closer, and I get my wish when he shoots a nasty glare of narrowed eyes up at me but does open his mouth a little wider and take the rest of my mostly limp cock into his mouth without any apparent difficulty. His teeth are carefully pulled away, and his tongue is warm and alive beneath me, his hand kneading at my thigh and his other shoulder tense, resisting the urge to do whatever it is that he usually does with that hand.

Brace, touch me, touch _himself?_ It's a _shame_ I won't find out.

He actually _is_ fairly talented. Better than most of the lost boys I've played with, at least. Not as immediately gratifying as Rufio, but Rufio _wants_ to do it for me, and he's had some practice at this point. Killian doesn't know me, and I'm pretty sure he'd rather castrate me right here if he thought he could get away with it and still get what he wants from me. Which he can't.

I'll change that. Someday he'll do this willingly, and he'll know exactly how to please me and _want_ to. When he's really _mine_, and he comes to _me_ and asks to be touched. Kneels at my feet and — he won't stop being angry, I'm pretty sure — glares up at me, but asks with frustration and _lust_ in his voice for me to fuck him, because he can't take another day _wanting _it.

The fantasy gets me all the way to hard, and Killian's experience comes into _sharp _relief as he takes it without a problem. Instead of backing off he just swallows and lets me swell inside his mouth, towards the back of his throat. _That_ makes me inhale shallowly, watching him and clenching my fingers in his hair, which makes me want to take his hair in both of my hands and fuck his mouth in slow, rolling thrusts to see him take it without ever once choking. Rufio choking doesn't _bother_ me, there are other holes if I want to _fuck_ my lost boy, but Killian's _lack_ of it is… new to me.

His legs shift a bit so he's spread on a wider base on his knees, balancing before his hand slides across my thigh and to my hip, gripping it with one strong hand. His nails dig into my skin a bit, but it's nowhere near hard enough to harm me and I couldn't care less. He slides off my cock till just the head remains in his mouth, cheeks hollowing out as he _sucks_, and I swallow back all the noise that wants to leave me except for a small laugh that comes out faintly breathless.

_Actually_ having Killian on his knees in front of me is a literal dream come true. I didn't picture the outfit, and the stubble and dark, kohl-lined eyes are different, and he's so much _angrier_ than I ever pictured him and so much less _broken_, but I like it _better_ this way.

All I can do with grief is wear it down further, force it closer to the bone and deeper in the soul, unless I want to _fix_ someone and I just _don't_ have the patience for that. But anger? I can do all _kinds_ of things with anger. I can stoke it, make it hotter and turn it to _fury_, or douse it, or wear it away piece by piece until all they have left is the sense they _used_ to be angry, or I can turn it into something else entirely.

I don't know which one I'm going to do to Killian yet. I'll decide some time after I see how he reacts to realizing that I _never_ promised to let him off the island, and that he's stuck here until I decide to let him go. I can't _wait_ for that moment. It should be absolutely _delicious_.

I think I'll watch how his crew reacts too. How devoted his crew is, how well they like him and how tolerant they'll be of figuring out they're doomed _with_ him, is what will tell me what kind of man he _really_ is under all that anger. I think he's still good at heart, maybe even kind, just stripped of all that pesky naive optimism that made him so _adorable_ when he first came to the island. It was a good time, it made him _so_ easy to manipulate, but I'm both amused and alright with it being gone. There's not much that's more entertaining than watching a 'good' man turn his back on everything he believed in, after the world showed him he was a _fool_ for thinking that way.

I wonder how badly he _hates_ me.

Killian's tongue slides along the underside, slipping down and flattening out as he slides back down and takes me _easily_, without any apparent effort and as smoothly as I've ever felt. My breath catches for a moment and the hand I have on his shoulder tightens, I can feel him give what I can _feel_ in his soul is a viciously _satisfied_ grin around my dick.

I let go of his shoulder and slide my hand up his neck, along the curve of his stretched jaw and into the hair on the other side of his head. My thought, my _desire_, comes back and I consider it — admittedly with a bit of fuzziness — before deciding in a rush that _yes_, I'm _doing_ it. This is my night, for what _I_ want, and I'm going to do exactly what I want to Killian. If he protests, oh _well_. If he _fights_, I have a reason to deny him everything he wants from me and _make_ him earn it again.

I tighten my grip in his hair and tug just a little bit. His eyes open and flick up, irritation obvious in them, but he doesn't stop what he's doing. I wonder if that's his natural behavior, or if my Killian had a lover who taught him _how_ to do all this, precisely _how_ to please. As much as the idea of anyone else _touching_ my captain angers me, I can't deny that the image of Killian learning to please _anyone_, of being _fucked_, is a _good_ one. It's one that makes my breath hitch again, and my lust swirl its way a little higher. Whoever did teach him, I don't have to picture them. A faceless form, or _my_ form over the top of his arched back and muscled form. Marked with scars that only make him more interesting, more _alive_, proof that he's been in his fair share of fights and come out on top, _alive_. Not that he'll _ever_ come out on top with me.

I don't bother speaking to him, but I do give him a smirk mixed with a smile as I draw my hips back. His eyes narrow, and the hand on my hip tightens as if he wants me to stop, but I don't get the metal of his hook through my leg and there are no teeth scraping against me — not that it would hurt even if he _did_ do it — so I don't give him any kind of chance. I roll forward, and his eyes close as he relaxes in my grip and lets me control his head and my own hips in slow, rolling thrusts that slide my cock in and out of his lips, sinking to the base before drawing back and letting it almost slip out, then repeating the movement. It's _intoxicating_, and the _surrender_ in the looseness of his shoulders and the suddenly light touch of his hand, the ease of his mouth, is enough to make me release a higher pitched moan, resisting the urge to fuck him harder, _faster_, because the sight of my dick slipping into his mouth so easily feels like it could draw me over the edge completely on its own. I doubt it will, but I'm happy to take my time and let this pull me as far as it possibly can before I think about fucking him any harder.

I wonder if he can stay this relaxed and skilled if I'm faster, _rougher? _I'll find out, and that thought brings a grin to my lips that turns to bared teeth and a rounding of my shoulders.

I let one of my hands loosen and stroke over the side of his face briefly before returning to his hair, and he makes a soft noise around me — right at the deepest point — that tightens my fingers and stutters my rhythm as I gasp, the vibration of what felt and sounded like a _moan_ down my cock shooting lust down my spine like the drag of a hand, making me want to arch and throw my head back like I've seen Rufio do under my nails, under my _touch_. It feels _good_.

I settle for abandoning my slower pacing and speeding up a bit, and though Killian's hand tightens a bit on my hip he doesn't stop me, doesn't do anything but shift his weight a little bit and turn his head at a _slightly_ better angle. His tongue presses against the bottom of my cock as I slide inside, like a welcoming mat, and I _can't_ drag my eyes away from the way he looks, can't even _think_ of pulling out of his mouth and the warm, wet heat of his tongue and his throat.

I change my mind. Killian is _miles_ better at this than Rufio.

I can feel the edge to my pleasure already, because this is a _wet_ dream come to life and kneeling at my feet, the object of my obsession and my fantasies for _years_, and of all the things this body can do it does _not_ have the staying power of some men. I don't mind, I've _never_ minded. I _enjoy_ coming to my pleasure faster, and even though I _can_ use my magic to delay an orgasm, to hold myself back and away from the crest and never allow myself to fold over the edge, why would I unless I have something specifically planned for that? I can _also_ use my magic to recover quickly, nearly _instantly_, and that's a far _better_ use of it. Why have one drawn out orgasm when I can have three or four in a row, fuck my toy into oblivion or exhaustion?

I'm going to do that to Killian, going to fuck him long past when he can't keep up with me anymore, and all he can do is lay there and _take it_, feel the pleasure burning dull in his stomach and down his spine and not be able to do a damn thing about it. This will be a _long_ night, and a _good_ one, and I'll save the memories until the next time I drag my captain back to my bed, back to the touch of my hands and the sting of my teeth. That will be after he realizes the only way he'll get _anything_ on this island is to beg me for it and do _exactly_ what I want.

I let go of most of my restraint, _fucking_ Killian's mouth like it's his ass instead, but holding my strength back way from my hips, from my fingers, so I don't bruise or actually _hurt_ him. I'll want his mouth later, for other things, and I'm not going to damage it before I've gotten the full use of it. His hand clenches down a little harder, and I can feel and see him swallow, choke for _just_ a second before he forces it down and lets me do what I want to. The ease tightens the coil building low in my stomach, winding it tighter and tighter as I fuck his lips, until it _snaps_.

I groan, shoving my cock deep in his throat and holding him there, and I can feel him swallow repeatedly around me. The _difference_ from the sputters and choking gasps of my lost boys is _thrilling_, and I let myself ride it out all the way, clutching his head to keep inside of his mouth until I'm completely done. I very slowly let him go, let him pull away, until I slip from between his lips and I see him swallow one last time. His jaw works for a second, and he releases my hip to raise his hand to his mouth and wipe it. I lean down, grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away and taking his jaw with my other hand, dragging him halfway off the ground to kiss him. He recoils a little bit, but he's no match for my strength and I force my tongue into his mouth, exploring and giving a tiny shiver at the taste of my own release on his tongue. A possessive thrill runs down my back, and I pull back a bit and let him do the same, dropping the hand from his jaw to the top of his leather pants.

He glares at me, pulling once against my grip on his wrist, but I don't let him go. I reach lower, sliding my hand down over his groin and _grinning_ when I feel heat and a hardness not too different from my own. His eyes flutter shut, his teeth clenching as his head tilts a bit back and he _drags_ air in through his throat, a shudder shaking his shoulders.

"_My Killian_," I whisper, lowering my mouth from his to close my teeth around a section of skin below his jaw on his left side and roll it between them. Bruising, _hurting_ the skin to call up a dark mark that will tell _everyone_ who looks that the captain belongs to _me_. His coat might cover it, if he pulls the collar up, but I don't _care_ if he can get away with it.

I told him I wouldn't _tell_ them, and I won't. But them seeing, figuring it out on their own? Not my problem, and I want to see it _happen_.

"I'm not _yours_," he snarls, and his voice is a little rough around the edges, a little quieter and breathier than I've heard out of him so far.

"You are right _now_," I answer against his throat, rubbing down on his cock through the leather and feeling him _jerk_ against me, towards me. I swap to the other side of his neck. "Do I even _have_ to touch you, Killian?" I ask into his ear, taking the lobe of it between my teeth — with only the faintest taste of metal undertone, from the earring — and biting down softly; he makes a little noise in the back of his throat that sounds frustrated and _wanting_. "Or can I just _fuck_ you?"

I slide one thigh in between his legs and reach around to grip his ass _hard_, jerking him up against my thigh. I can feel the scrape of the hook against my flesh, but it feels accidental more than an intentional warning or injury, and the hand I have captive clenches. I pull him down against me, pushing forward and slipping my thigh along the hard press of his cock and between his legs, and he gives a real _moan_ this time, shaking his head a little bit.

"_Tell_ me, Killian," I demand.

"Tell you _what?_" he gasps, throat working and swallowing, the metal of his hook pressed against my side, the point turned down and away.

"I want to know if you've ever come," I punctuate my question with a slide of my thigh that drags another shudder from him, "from being _fucked_, Killian." I dig my teeth into his skin for a second and give a low laugh at the hitch of breath and the fast heartbeat I can feel echoing into my bones from his chest into mine. "I want to know if I can pin you down to that bed and _fuck_," I roll the word between my lips, _hissing_ it into his ear, "_you_, never _touch_ you until you arch and come from _nothing_ but my cock." He makes another little noise in his throat and I smirk against the skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of him — salt, the sea, the smell of _leather_ and rum — and _feeling_ the anger in him dimming down to make way for the bright fire of _lust_. "_Tell me,_" I demand.

He shudders, nearly chokes, and swallows again. "_Fuck_ you," he gasps out, nearly trembling, and I laugh.

"Not an _answer_," I point out, and _shove_ him back and away from me. He falls, hits the bed behind him _hard,_ and I follow him down, crouching over him.

His eyes are bright with lust, narrowed in wariness and the remainder of the anger, his mouth just slightly open, and his hand grips my shoulder _hard_ when I lean down and kiss him, shoving my way inside again. I rip his shirt away with my other hand, tearing it along the seams until it falls to the ground next to us, and he makes a violent sound of protest into my mouth but apart from a single shove at my shoulder he doesn't try and stop me. His bare skin is warm against mine, lightly haired where I'm smooth, and firm with muscle that's tensed and defined from the stress, his chest rising in small gasps. I lower my hands to his belt and pants, undoing them and — because I _like_ leather, and I don't really want to fix these later — shoving them down his legs. His cock springs free in the air between us, and I shove him down and pin him by his shoulder when he tries to rise up against me.

"If you won't _tell_ me," I hiss against his mouth, letting my lips curl in a smirk, "I'm just going to have to find out on my own."

He inhales _sharply_, his back rising off the bed for a second in a small arch as his head tosses to the side and his eyes clench shut. "Yes," he half snarls, half moans. "_Fuck_ you, _yes_."

I laugh, and anticipation is bright and _burning_ in my veins. "Then I'll have to _try_ it," I say with a grin, teeth baring and I can feel the predatory urges of a hunt, the _desire_ strong in my stomach and the back of my head. I lean back off of him, dragging his pants down his legs and then — because I am _far_ too worked up and far too _impatient_ — snapping my fingers to get his boots off his feet and across the room, somewhere _else_ except on his feet and in the way of me pulling his pants off of him.

He props himself up, and there's a flush to his cheeks that matches the blown pupils eating up almost all of the blue of his eyes, a pattern to his shallow, labored breaths that all screams of _desire._ But the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and the single hand curled into a fist are all _denial_, _refusal_.

"Not bloody likely," he manages to get out at me, and I only offer a smirk as I toss his pants aside.

I take a breath in, _grin_, and pull myself through space to be at his back _instantly_. One of my hands closes on his shoulder and _slams_ him down onto the bed on his chest, and I reach out with the other and grab his thigh, dragging his legs up onto the bed and shoving my own between them as he gives a startled shout and then starts to struggle. Not much, a jerking pull against the hand pinning him down and a single snap of his hips that immediately stops and does _not_ repeat.

I grind down into his ass, closing my eyes for a second to reach inside my own body and shoo away the faint tiredness, to kill the recovery time that I remember once having, and my cock hardens a little bit against the bare curve of his ass. I can see him swallow, feel him shudder under my hand, and lean down against him to scrape my teeth down the back of his left shoulder, the one I'm not pinning.

"_My_ night, captain," I remind him quietly, and I'm about to release his thigh to bring a jar of oil to me from across the room before my gaze lands on a candle instead, and I look at it for a moment before biting harder into the shoulder under my teeth and sliding the hand pinning the other one out along his arm and up to his wrist.

With a thought I pull the rope from where it's tucked down off the main bed, but already attached to the frame. Killian's head is turned the other way, so he doesn't startle and then _struggle _until the rope touches his wrist and winds around it. His struggles don't _really_ matter, my strength is enough to hold him down even with just my weight against his hips and back, and I don't actually need to let go of his wrist to tie it down to the frame of the bed, magic does that for me well enough. I reach out with both of my hands to his faintly flailing left arm, and the hook at the end of it.

"Son of a _bitch_," he snarls, jerking against me and against the binds, and my hands smooth down across the metal, the leather connecting it, and then to his flesh. "Let me the bloody hell go, demon!"

I grin, and then pull him forward, up, and _slam _the point of his hook into the wood frame of the bed. It sinks in deep, and he gives a shocked, _furious_, snarl. I reach for the wood with my magic and mold it shut again, forming it around the hook and containing that arm as easily as the other one.

"_Make_ me," I say, smoothing my hands down his arm and up to his shoulders, along his back. I look up and glance at the candle again, and then raise one hand and lean up and away from Killian's back. I bring a _new_ candle to my hand, lighting it with a thought and watching it, slowly, start to melt with a smirk.

"This isn't bloody," I let the first drop slide off the edge of the candle, "fai-_ah!_" He jerks and flinches at the same time, back curving away from the spot where the wax landed. I return the candle to mostly upright, letting it gather as his hand clenches into a fist and he pulls against the rope and the wood. "What the," I tilt the candle; cutting him off is going to become my new favorite hobby, "fu-_nghh!_" I pull it up his back as he shouts and arches into the bed, letting the collected bit of wax drop in a quick line up his spine.

He twists, gasps and _swallows_, and I let the next drop fall high, up between his shoulder blades and nearly at the back of his neck. His shoulders cringe into the bed, and he makes a low, strained noise that sounds like it's been forced through his teeth. I can't help the smirk that twists my lips, and my cock is well on its way to fully hard.

I lean down over him, tracing the nails of my free hand up his back, along the line of his spine and the spots of wax, and he shudders and makes a noise that's nearly a _keen_. I have to bite down on my bottom lip to not bite down into _him_ at the noise. I turn my head sideways and tip the candle again, watching the drops fall to land along his ribs, and I can feel him arch under me and make a shuddering sound that goes _straight_ to my cock.

"You make _wonderful _noises," I tell him, easing the wax back down into a mostly solid form with magic so he can pull himself back together to speak. "Do you enjoy it, Killian, or are you just _enduring_ for me my _lovely _captain?" I can feel him shake a little bit with every breath in, and I almost don't wait for an answer because I _know_.

This isn't enough pain to shut someone like him down, the only reason it would silence him would be if this was getting to him. Swamping him with desire and _shoving _his words back down his throat, keeping him silent. I don't need him to _answer_ to know that.

"Bloody _hell,_" he finally gasps, and I _grin_.

I slip my left hand down around his waist, reaching in to find and grasp the length of his cock. Hard, hot, nearly _throbbing_, and I laugh. No better proof that whatever he's thinking, he _likes _this. "I _thought _so," I hiss into the flesh of his back, and let go of his cock when he bucks forward into my grip. I laugh. "Oh, we're not done with _this _yet, captain. Now _now_."

He twists, pulling against the binds and I watch the muscles of his back and shoulders tense and flex beneath the roll of his skin. I stroke my free hand up his back, pressing his left shoulder back down into the bed for a moment before letting him go. I straighten up off of him, tracing my free hand down his back and letting it rest at his waist while I shift, swinging my right leg up to straddle his leg, pressing down against him and biting my lip again to not grind forward. I take a glance at the candle as his head turns, craning over his shoulder to look back at me, confirming that it's starting to melt again before I meet his gaze. His blue eyes are a little glazed, lips parted and cheeks flushed, and I press my hand down against his lower back to not lean into him and bite, or give all this up and just fuck him, or anything else I'm thinking about.

He watches as I shift the candle, and I watch his teeth clench together and his breathing quicken in anticipation as I slowly tip the candle. It's barely melted, and two drops slip from it and through the air to splash against the lower right part of his back, a few inches above the curve of his ass. He draws in a sharp breath, jerking up a little bit, and I tighten my thighs around his leg as it twists up into me. His eyes shutter closed for a second, mouth falling open, and I wait until they open again, at least looking at me even if they're not really focusing.

I let some wax pool on top of the candle, resisting the urge to make it melt faster with magic because the anticipation is always _half _of things like this. He swallows, a shudder slipping through his shoulders, back rising and falling with the slightly unsteady pattern of his breathing.

"Pan," he says, voice dark and rough with what's _obviously _lust and might be wariness, and I flick my hand to scatter some of the wax across his back. He gasps, right hand curling around the rope and _pulling_, his muscles straining as he arches away from where the drops land. "_God_," he moans, and I lean down over him, raking my nails along his back, scraping wax off of him to flake across his skin. I grin as his head tosses, burying into the fabric beneath him as his teeth clench and bare, the picture of resistance and frustrated _desire_.

"You can pray to me if you want," I tell him, picking a clean spot of skin on his shoulder to bite down on, rolling it between my teeth and closing my eyes for a moment at the taste on my tongue. Salt, the faintest hint of copper when my canines nick his flesh, and a slight tang of metal, all overlayed over the unique taste of human skin.

"You're not a _god_," Killian snarls at me, over his shoulder even as his breath comes hard, back rising against my chest.

I raise my left hand to brush over his neck and then fist in his hair, and pull his head back a bit as I twist, exposing his side to the air and tilting the candle over it. Instead of moving it, letting the drops fall singularly, I hold it sideways and watch his face as the splash of wax hits his side, about halfway up his ribs. He cries out, jerking underneath me and arching far enough that my hand isn't pulling on his hair anymore, and I shove out a breath against his flesh.

"I'm the closest thing Neverland _has_," I hiss, into his ear, pulling to keep his throat arched as I drop my teeth and mouth to it. He groans, resisting my hold for just a moment until I tug downwards on his hair, and he gives another groan, breathier than the first. I pull my teeth back and flick my gaze down to aim the candle, letting the small amount of collected wax fall to drip down his side, higher than the first splash. He twitches, but only sucks in a sharp breath and grits his teeth, weathering it.

"_No_," he spits, and I laugh, straightening the candle so it doesn't keep dripping. I lean around him, twisting his head with the hand in his hair to tilt it up towards me, hold it in place as I claim his mouth. He gives a sound of protest, something like a snarl, but I ignore it. I shove my tongue inside his mouth, pressing tightly against his back and his ass as I unleash a little bit of my passion into the kiss, teeth grazing at his lips.

I let him go abruptly, without giving him any chance to adjust, and lean back, pushing my self up with my now-free hand right between his shoulder blades, pinning him down as I straighten up. The second I'm up, resettled, I grin and meet the wary, _angry_, _heated_ gaze directed back at me.

"We'll see," I say, tilting my head and moving the candle through the air above his back. I lower it, dipping it close enough to his back that he can feel the heat from the flame — and he draws in a shaky breath, muscles tightening as he clearly prepares for pain — before raising it to a safe distance again. I've got no interest in burning my captain, not for now. I like him when he's enjoying what I do, however reluctantly.

I tilt the candle while it's hovering over his upper back, and he flinches as the first drop splashes at the base of his neck, mouth parting a little bit. I slip my free hand down his spine, slowly, following the sweep of my hand with the candle, dropping bits of wax down the ridge of his spine as it arches and flexes underneath me. My mouth is dry, and I can't tear my gaze away from the arch of his back beneath me, not even to watch his head toss as he makes the most perfect, shaking, noises above me, trying to muffle them against the fabric. I think he might actually bite down on the blanket.

I let the last drop fall right at his tailbone and he jerks _sharply_, but whatever noise he makes is hidden against the bed. I swallow, straightening the candle absently as I trail my free hand back up, scraping wax off to reveal reddened skin, and I finally drag my gaze away from his back to take a look at his face. He's definitively flushed now, the blanket beneath us clutched sharply between his teeth, eyes closed. He's still twitching, jerking, arching, but he's not making any kind of noise.

I feel my lips curl into a smirk, and it's only when I _feel_ the answering shift of the island around me that I realize I've completely let go of the guard I usually keep up. I shudder a little bit, trying to pull some of my control back up, but realize pretty quickly that it's a lost cause. It won't be much longer before the island and I are one again, and whatever happens my lost boys and Killian's pirates will just have to get through it, because there's no way I'm going to be able to hold back with the reality of my wet dreams spread out underneath me. It's not going to happen.

I should get Killian ready for me before I snap completely. Nothing kills the mood faster than that kind of pain.

I pull my left hand away from his back, flicking the candle again to distract my captain as I reach for what was initially my target, pulling the jar of oil set safely across the room to my side, to the bed to my left and away from the twitch and writhe of his other leg and hip. I reach for it, pulling the lid of it away and dipping my fingers in, gritting my teeth together for a moment in restraint, _control_. He jerks, and I can see his lip lift in a snarl but he doesn't let go of the blanket to aim anything real at me, when I slip my oil-slick fingers between his cheeks, to rub at the skin around his entrance.

"How long?" I demand, nudging at the outside of the tight hole I can feel, and he spits the blanket out to speak, right shoulder rolling and tightening with the clench of muscle.

"A while," he answers vaguely, eyes still closed, and I bite down _sharply_ on my tongue to stop my questioning there.

Something happened to my Killian, he lost something else apart from his hand to Rumple — my son's wife, the one he stole, if I had to guess — and even though I _want_ to ask if he never slept with his crew while he was with her, if he hasn't been with another man since before that ever started, I _won't_. Later, when I want to see the fury and the grief in my captain's eyes burn bright, when I want to bring him _low_ and figure out exactly what happened so I can use it to my advantage, then I'll dig into that wound. But right now all I want is my captain's fire, and I'm not risking anything that might douse it.

He tenses for a second as I push at his hole with one finger, and then I see a breath shove past his teeth and he forcibly relaxes, eases into my touch. It nearly takes _my_ breath, and I bend to press a kiss with only a _touch_ of teeth to his back in something like thanks. I could force him open, coax his body open for me without his help, but this is _so_ much better. I slip one finger inside him, letting a slightly unsteady rush of air out of my mouth, against his skin, at the gripping heat and warmth.

My captain will feel so _good_ around me.

My fingers are long, but thin, like the rest of me, so I fit a second in without any problem. Only because he's relaxed, inviting, there's no way I could have done it if he were fighting me. It's my captain's experience showing through again; he knows that I'm going to do what I want to and that fighting me will really only make it worse. What would be the point in struggling when all I'm trying to do with this particular touch is make things less painful for him down the road? Maybe I won't have the patience to do it properly, and apparently it's been a while for him so the likelihood that it will be completely painless is unlikely, but I can make things a little better for him this way.

I like my captain in pain — and he likes it too, how _wonderful_ — but this is different. _Intentional_ pain is one thing, the pain of something taken too fast, done incorrectly, is something else entirely.

His back curves up, elbows pressing into the bed as he apparently tries and fails to stay still, and I watch the slightly open ring of his mouth with a fogged desire. It's been a long time since anyone made me feel this way. Not since I've been here, definitely. My lost boys are decent enough fucks, good for an outlet, but I don't _desire_ them the way that I do Killian. They don't _react_ like him, they _want_ to please me and Killian _doesn't_. Killian fights me with every breath, at least in his mind even if he's not actually struggling. I can't _wait_ until I break that resistance down and he realizes that his hatred for me aside, I know how he ticks now and I'm going to make him ache and _want _until he _begs _for another moment in my bed.

I roll my fingers, thrusting them inside him and watching him bite down on his lower lip to stay silent. The challenge brings a shortness to my breath that I haven't felt in a very, _very _long time. I take a look at the candle in my hand, at the melted middle that's only barely contained by the softened edges, only still there at all because I'm capable of holding perfectly still when I want to.

"Let's see how much you can take, _captain_," I hiss against his back, and his eyes flick open as I lean back and bring the candle up. His mouth parts, like he's going to say something, but he doesn't have time to before I tip the candle.

He shouts as I let it stream out to paint a trail up his back, to the right side of his spine, arching and — my breath catches — clenching down around my fingers. I give him a moment to recover, where he drags in a shaky breath and I watch his eyes, the pupils large in the sea of blue and blown wide from lust, before tipping the candle again and painting a matching line in the opposite direction, down the left side this time. This time he keens, jerking up against me, the muscles of his back rolling and caught between pulling instinctively away from the heat, and closer to the source of pleasure.

"_Fuck!" _he shouts, voice a ragged gasp, and I can feel my cock twitch where it's pressed up against the right cheek of his ass. "_Pan_—"

"I should give you something to call me," I comment, forcing my voice to be smooth even though I'm devoting a fair amount of attention to not abandoning my games and just _fucking _my captain. "_Sir_, maybe?"

Even panting, trembling, I can see his lip lifting in a snarl. "I'm not calling you—" I draw the next line over his ribs on the left side, and he cuts off with a cry that fades into something between a groan and the snarl his mouth is still curved into. "Not calling you _sir_," he finishes, nearly spitting the words, "_demon_."

The warmth in my chest bursts out in a laugh that I don't bother trying to contain, that I let arch my throat back for a moment. It's so _refreshing _to have someone challenge me, to have someone fight me and say _no_. Rufio and the rest are _mine_, carried here by my shadow or by the touch of my power, and they were never _foolish _enough to try and resist me. But then, they don't mean as much to me as my dear _captain_. Dear _Killian_.

"_Someday_," I promise, and immediately distract him with a last line down his ribs on the right side, exhausting the last of the pooled wax. Someday he'll kneel in front of me and call me whatever I _want _him to.

He shakes, hip jerking up into me and my eyes close for a second at the feeling, unable to help grinding down into him, or the thin noise that wrenches itself out of my throat. My left hand works mostly without my attention, rolling, and I wait until the tension in his muscles eases again, draining from him, before adding in a third finger to the mix. That drags a rough moan from him, and I extinguish the candle with a thought and a breath. I drop it off the edge of the bed — he flinches a bit at the sound of it hitting the dirt floor — and take my nails to his back to peel the wax off of him. He makes a choked noise under my fingers, _writhing_, and I shudder at the image of my cock replacing the fingers inside him, of him writhing _just _like this as I fuck him.

I lean down, sinking my teeth into a spot high up on the back of his neck and at a mostly clean space, ignoring the stray flecks of wax. It helps me hold back just a little longer, even if the groan he gives vibrates back into my mouth, and ratchets my desire a bit higher. The next sound he makes — a strangled moan that's forced through his gritted teeth — snaps me completely.

I let go of his neck and lean back, slipping my hand out of him and shifting to swing my outside leg back in between his. He makes a slightly startled noise as I grip both his thighs and push him up to his knees, and I don't waste a second — I _can't_, I want him _now _— before aiming myself up and pushing into him in one long, smooth stroke. There's a bit of resistance — the oil from my fingers is in him, but not on my cock — but my strength overcomes it, and Killian cries out and arches down, the muscles of his thighs tensing beneath my hands. I let my head fall back at the tight clench of heat around me, of my hips pressed flush to his ass, shoving a breath through my teeth.

"Bloody _bastard_," he snarls after a few seconds, the tension in him easing a little bit, "give a guy a second of warning."

My lips curl into a grin and I bring my head back up, sliding my left hand — slick with oil, but I don't care — up his back as I lean over him a bit. "Aww, did I hurt you, _Killian?_"

"Fuck off," he snaps back, breathless, and I curl my fingers in his hair and _wrench_ his head back, forcing him to arch and stay that way. The shuddering cry that escapes his throat makes me grind forward into him without being able to even think about it, and I close my eyes for just a second.

"Let's see how much it takes to get you off _just_ like this, _captain_," I say in a purr, flexing the hand on his thigh and drawing out just a bit. It's a smoother slide now, with the oil having slicked over me as I went in. He makes half a sound of protest — but I can feel the _anticipation _in him, burning bright alongside the lust and that tiny, distant flame of anger — before I slam the inch or so back in, cutting off whatever he was thinking about saying.

I curl my hand around his hip to hold him steady and tighten the one in his hair just a little bit, watching, _enjoying_, the curve of his throat and the strain of his muscles. I let my control, the tiny fraction I have left, ease a little bit. I don't close my eyes — normally, yes, but not with my captain underneath me, not _ever_ — but I let the lids lower, let them be half-lidded as I pull almost completely out of him before pushing my way back in. The rhythm is easy, familiar, and each thrust back in draws strained noises from his throat that spur me on, build the desire in the pit of my stomach.

I don't let go completely — bad idea, unless I want to break bones and more — but I don't bother fully leashing my strength either. Killian can take it, he might even _like _it, and I'm going to find out _exactly _how much he can handle before the night is through.

After all, I don't think my captain ever stopped to think that I _am _this island, and night doesn't end until I _want _it to.

* * *

><p>Alright, so first things first, <strong>these are very unsafe BDSM practices<strong>, don't **ever **do this. When practicing wax play, as a top, **always** test the heat of the wax on your own skin from whatever height you're using, before letting it hit the sub. Otherwise you can cause serious burns, and not-fun pain. Don't do it. Also never, **never**, engage in BDSM play without a safeword. I stress that these are fictional characters, doing things in ways that aren't true to reality, and if you want to try anything they do please research it first. This can be a lot of fun, but if you do it in an unsafe way it's just going to be bad.

Now, I hope you enjoyed this and it is not only likely but _guaranteed _that I will be writing more Pan/Hook. I fell in love with their whole dynamic, and I think I've figured out both their voices so there's no reason for me not to write more. Besides, I have so much _history _to go through. All that time Killian spent in Neverland, all those 'deals' he made that we never get any kind of clarification on. Also, Echo Cave anybody? Killian knows how it works, but still lost half his crew in it? Hmmmm...

Yeah, I might have watched every single scene with any of the Neverland crew (Killian, Pan, Felix, Tink, etc.) in all the current seasons and written down every single thing about their timelines, knowledge, and personalities that I could. I _dare _you to say that Killian isn't at least a sub, if not masochistic. 'Have your lovely wife torture it out of me, which I promise will be fun for both of us-', 'I've been tied up in bed, and not in the good way'... Oh _Killian_. Get your head out of your ass and go find a real Dom, darling. Emma just isn't one.


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